


An Ordinary Phoenix

by athriax



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 00:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athriax/pseuds/athriax
Summary: "Holy shit," Stiles thinks, "Holy shit. We’re getting married."





	An Ordinary Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> My little piece for Solstice. The zine was a joy to run and everyone who contributed did a phenomenal job.

The ground is soft and damp beneath Stiles’ bare feet. Moss and cool leaves catch between his toes as he follows the path, deep into the woods. The trees are filled with the glow of firefly lights, guiding his way through the tall, winding trunks; the shadow of branches flickering over him. The small golden bells around his wrists and ankles chime softly with each step.

The barest sliver of moon hangs low in the sky, skimming the canopy, winking at him as he walks. Fingers of smoke from the bonfire reach out and pull him forward and the air is heavy with spices and ash and magic.

He can hear them up ahead, his family and friends, the laughter and murmured conversation rumbling from the clearing where they’re waiting. _Where Derek’s waiting_. His heart gives an odd, slippery thump at the thought.

The sounds die down as he breaks through the tree line, everyone falling quiet as they realize he’s there. Wooden folding chairs are arranged in two loose half moons, creating a larger circle around the space in the middle, and everyone is craning in their seats to get a look at him.

Scott’s grinning at him so hard it looks like it hurts, sitting with Melissa at his flank, who’s giving Stiles such a look of motherly pride that it hurts. Allison’s on his other side, eyes twinkling. Lydia and Cora are hand in hand, giving him looks that are affectionate and threatening, respectively.

The rest of the small crowd blurs as he catches sight of Derek behind them. His feet are also bare, planted firmly within the ritual circle Stiles himself cut into the earth earlier in the day. He’s bare-chested, but painted so thoroughly with runes that it almost looks like he’s covered in blood, paint shining in the firelight.

The altar behind him is woven so thickly with marigolds and California poppies that Stiles can’t even see the frame. And, _oh_ , his eyes are positively glowing where they’re pinned on him, the look in them so soft it makes Stiles _ache._

And _Holy shit_ , Stiles thinks, _Holy shit. We’re getting married._

 

~♠~

 

The smile on Derek’s face as Stiles approaches is big and genuine, radiating happiness. All teeth and sunshine.

“Hi,” he says, low and rusty and a little awed and god, Stiles can relate. He doesn’t know what his own face is doing, but he assumes it’s similarly dopey and lovestruck.

“Hi,” he says, voice coming out almost as softly as Derek’s. They stare at each other for a long moment, caught up and grinning, until there’s a sharp wolf-whistle from behind them and Cora’s stage whisper of “Oh my god get _on_ with it this is _gross_.”

A murmur of laughter runs through their audience, and Derek tosses her a half-hearted glare, but his eyes are immediately drawn back to Stiles.

“I’ll remember that when you finally get off your ass and ask Lydia to marry you,” he mutters, not looking away from Stiles. Stiles, who has to bite down on his lip at that. It’s probably bad form to be overtaken by hysterical laughter at your own wedding.

Cora is suspiciously quiet in the seats somewhere behind him and Stiles twists around, catching a glimpse of her dark flush before Derek nudges him to regain his attention.

“Ready?” he asks, both hands extended, head tilted towards where Stiles’ dad, who got _certified_ for this, is waiting for them under the altar.

Stiles sucks in a deep breath, shaking his suddenly trembling fingers out a little, causing a cascade of softly tinkling bells, before taking Derek’s hands and giving them a quick squeeze. “You bet, baby.”

Derek’s grin returns full force, and he ducks his head, presses a swift closed-mouthed kiss to Stiles’ white knuckles, and tugs him forward, towards their forever.

 

~♠~

 

The more traditional parts of the ceremony pass in a blur.

Stiles knows all the words, has practiced them a million times in the privacy of their bedroom. Listened to _his dad_ practice them. It was nerve wracking in front of his father and his own reflection. But now that it’s happening, now that it’s _really_ happening, he can barely make himself pay attention. He’s got better things to focus on.

Like the way the light from the torches all around the clearing ripples over the glossy paint covering Derek from neck to navel. The way Derek’s eyes are roaming all over his face like he’s never seen him before and might never see him again. The way they crinkle when he grins, marking years of hard-earned happiness.

His hair is a little longer, swept back from his face. He’s got a little grey creeping into his beard now, touches of soft silver at his temples. It looks good on him. Stiles gets to watch it grow in. Get’s to _grow old_ with him.

And huh. _Huh_. Isn’t that something.

“Snap out of it, kid,” his dad says, chuckling. And oh, _oh_ , how long was he zoned out staring at at the tiny freckles on the bridge of Derek’s nose?

“Yessir,” he says, grinning at his dad’s eye roll and giving Derek’s hands a quick squeeze.

“Who has the rings?” The sheriff asks, glancing to the row of seats behind them.

Stiles grins at Isaac’s faint murmur of “Oh shit,” before the little velvet box goes whizzing through the air near his right ear. Derek catches it without looking. _Showoff_.

He pops the box open and Stiles reaches in for Derek’s ring.

A heavy band of anodized bronze with a pattern of ferns pressed into it, solid and sturdy as it’s soon to be owner. Stiles traces a fingertip lightly over the inscription on the inside.

_To the moon._

Stiles’ ring is made from his mother’s, and even though he went with Derek to get it altered he still tears up seeing it now. A band of beaten gold, a single matching fern etched onto the top. He knows what its inscription reads.

_More than the stars._

Derek plucks it from the box, and retakes Stiles’ hands, the press of slowly warming metal between them.

“Who’s going first, boys?” The sheriff asks, smiling indulgently at them.

Derek raises both eyebrows at Stiles, asking him a silent question.

Stiles nods, a little too enthusiastically if Derek’s soft, warm chuckle is anything to go by, and his heart climbs its way into his throat as he speaks.

“Derek Silvester Hale,” he starts, eyes bright and whole body quivering. “You are without a doubt the biggest asshole I have ever met.”

“Hey-” Derek complains, eyebrows drawing together.

“Lemme finish, lemme finish,” Stiles grins. His veins are flooded with adrenaline and mischief and now that he’s started he’s not going to get distracted. “You’re the biggest asshole I’ve ever met, and you’re also the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Stiles watches as Derek goes from pretending to be mad to pretending he’s not going to cry in an instant. _Gotcha_.

“Ever since I was sixteen and sticking my nose where it _definitely_ didn’t belong, I’ve been butting heads with you. It just took me a while to realize I wanted to keep doing it for the rest of my life. I want to argue about movies with you. I want to bicker about who gets the last banana pancake. I want to keep playing poker with you until you can’t tell when I’m cheating anymore. I wanna raise a couple baby werewolves with you someday. I want to be your _family_.”

Stiles watches as a solitary tear escapes Derek’s hold, his own throat clicking as he swallows.

“The lives we lead don’t always lend themselves to keeping promises, but we’ve saved each other’s skin a couple times now, so I think it might be safe. I swear I’ll knock on wood later.” Stiles takes a deep breath, runs his thumbs over the backs of Derek’s hands.

“So, here goes! I promise to kill spiders for you with only minimal teasing. I promise to always give your fluffier side the top tier belly rubs.” He’s barely aware of the murmured laughter from their audience, more focused on Derek’s watery chuckle.

“I promise to pull you out of your head when you get a little lost, and to let you do the same for me. I promise to play with you, to _run_ with you, till we’re both old and decrepit. I promise to make the good hot chocolate whenever you look like you need it. I promise to sleep in with you on lazy days and sit up with you on bad nights. I promise to be _here_ , always, whenever you need me.”

Derek hums a little, letting go of Stiles’ hands to reach up and rub the tears from his cheeks. Stiles’ own eyes feel hot, but he’s not quite done.

“You’re my forever girl, Derek Hale,” Derek huffs and Stiles flicks his wrist. “And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life loving you.”

“The ring, son,” His dad prompts quietly, when he’s spent a moment too long watching Derek watch him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he croaks. He loosens his hold on Derek’s hands, drawing back and cupping the left one.

The ring fits perfectly, (he knew it would, he was there when it was measured,) but seeing it on Derek’s hand is something entirely different. He has to blink rapidly to keep from losing his war with tears.

Derek is staring down at his own slightly trembling hand with a look Stiles has never seen before, flexing his fingers experimentally.

“Your turn, kid,” The sheriff says, turning to Derek. His voice is amused and proud in a way that settles in Stiles’ chest like a sun-warmed stone.

Derek blinks hard, smiles at him, sucks in a hitching breath and stands up a little straighter.

“Mieczyslaw Stilinski,” he starts, with such flawless pronunciation that Stiles can’t even be mad.

“I’ve never been one to believe in fate, but my mother did. The older I get the more I think she may have been right. The universe set you down in front of me one too many times for anything else.”

His eyes are positively gleaming as he speaks, pinky finger gently tapping out the frantic rhythm of Stiles’ own heartbeat against his wrist.

“I used to think you were a bad penny, always turning up where I least wanted you. But I’ve learned you’re a lucky one instead. I’ve survived a lot of terrible things in my life and I can’t help but feel that maybe getting here, making it to this moment where I get to promise to spend the rest of it with you, is a reward for getting this far.”

And _oh_ , Stiles is going to lose that war with tears after all.

“I have some promises of my own I’d like to keep with you.” Derek says, drawing another deep breath.

“I promise not to ball up my socks in the laundry. I promise to open any and all jars presented to me with only minimal complaint. I promise to let any monsters under our bed know that I’m a bigger, scarier monster, and that I’m on your side.”

Stiles hears someone behind them snort at that one, but he’s busy focusing very intently on Derek’s left ear, because the look he’s giving him is potentially unsurvivable.

“I promise to help you slow down when everything’s too fast. I promise that I’ll never leave you behind, that I’ll always come back for you. I promise to make you _laugh_ ” Derek’s voice stutters a little, “because it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. And most of all I promise to love you and to let myself be loved in return.”

Derek pauses, collecting himself, and Stiles squeezes his hands in reassurance.

“You’re my friend. My mate,” his voice cracks a little. “My light in dark places, anchoring me here. You’re my family, and I’m proud and terrified to make that official.”

Derek loosens his hold a little, slipping the warm gold of Stiles’ ring onto the appropriate finger. He leans in a little, nuzzling his temple against Stiles’ and murmurs low, just for him.

“ _Mine_.”

“Alright, alright, hold your horses, we’re not quite done yet,” Stiles’ dad interrupts, laughter in his voice. Stiles pulls back a little, looking over at him, and finds his eyes red rimmed from tears of his own.

“Boys, in front of witnesses and through your words tonight you have promised to love, protect, and honor one another. By the power vested in me by the State of California, I now pronounce you partners in marriage.”

The cheers and whoops from their small audience almost drown out the following “You may now kiss your husband,” but Stiles doesn’t much mind. He’s already got his arms twined around Derek’s neck. Derek presses against him from tip to toe, smearing his red ritual paint all over the billowing white of Stiles’ own tunic.

He brings his hands up to cup Stiles’ face, thumbs brushing along the hooks of his jaw, and Stiles can’t do anything but smile at him.

“Hey, big guy,” he murmurs into the tiny space between their mouths.

“Hello, Mr. Hale,” Derek answers, before pressing their mouths together in a crooked, incandescently happy kiss.

  
~♠~

  
Later, after the cake has been cut, the speeches given (Scott and Erica will pay for their sins, this is Stiles’ solemn vow,) the bottles of wolfsbane laced champagne have been brought out, and everyone is happy and loose; Stiles and Derek circle one another on the crisp, grass carpet of their makeshift dance floor.

Stiles rests his head on Derek’s shoulder, face pressed underneath his jaw and humming along to the music pumping through the clearing. Erica and Boyd are spinning in similar lazy spirals nearby, and somewhere a little further off Chris and Peter are circling each other with ominous intent.

Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been this happy in his life.

Derek’s thoughts must be somewhere on the same track, because he chuckles softly, pulling away a little to look down at him.

“You’ve got rouge all over yourself,” he says, bringing a thumb up to swipe at Stiles’ lazily grinning mouth.

“And whose fault is that, Mr. Hale?” Stiles asks archly, hooking his arms over Derek’s shoulders and running his fingers through the soft hair at his nape.

“No idea, Mr. Hale,” Derek murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss high on Stiles’ cheek. He slots them closer together, nosing intently at Stiles temple, scenting him.

“Hey, what’s with the sniffing, wolfy?” Stiles demands, pinching his side gently.

Derek just huffs at him, pulling him in closer, winding his arms more tightly around his waist.

“Can’t help it,” he says, biting gently at the lobe of Stiles’ ear. “You smell good. Happy.”

And yeah, _yeah_ Stiles gets that.

A wicked smile spreads over Stiles’ face as he gets an idea, and quick as a flash he hooks a foot behind one of Derek’s ankles, shoving him gently back and toppling him to the ground.

Stiles takes off for the trees, a cacophony of laughter and cheerful jeers and Derek’s playful snarls behind him as he runs.

“Catch me,” he calls over his shoulder as he breaks the treeline, running full tilt into the woods. The scariest thing out here is behind him, and he trusts it with his life.

He only makes it a few hundred yards into the trees, bells on his hands and feet jangling wildly with each stride, before Derek bowls into him from behind.

He’s cackling as he hits the ground (gently, Derek has mastered the art of the painless tackle) and Derek’s flashing eyes and sharp, sharp teeth only serve to increase his breathless mirth.

“ _Mine_ ,” Derek growls for the second time, punctuating it with a trail of stinging little bites up Stiles’ neck.

“Mhmm,” Stiles agrees, flopping back into the leaf litter in surrender.

He’s content to let Derek worry at his throat for a moment, until he’s satisfied he’s staked his claim.

He lifts himself back up after a while, settling over Stiles, pinning him with his solid bulk. His hair is sticking up in all directions and his forehead’s a little bumpy and he looks entirely too happy with himself.

Stiles loves him endlessly.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Stiles says aloud, rolling his eyes and reaching both hands up to run them through Derek’s wild hair, picking out leaves.

“Yeah,” Derek says, looking down at Stiles with a soft grin tugging at his mouth and the light of the waning moon in his eyes. “Yeah, I’m lucky.”

Stiles’ laughter is cut off by a firm kiss, and somewhere on the wind there’s a sound like a chorus of howls.

 


End file.
